Everlasting Embers
by ink and ashes
Summary: I thought I told you... I'm a star.


**E V E R L A S T I N G . E M B E R S**

_I thought I told you... I'm __a star__  
You see the ice... You see the cars  
Flashy __lights__... Everywhere we are  
Live the night... Like there's no tomorrow_

"What _is_ that racket?" his voice cried over the caterwauling.

Head buried deep in her engrossing tome, a glassy-eyed blonde snapped her gaze towards him so quickly, he wondered if she would suffer whiplash as a result. "Pardon?"

"That…" he fumbled for a word and found it, not particularly concerned with its eloquence. "_Pigeon fodder_. I don't believe I've ever had the misfortune of hearing it before, but would you spare me the cruel and unusual punishment of _ever_ assailing my ears with that… that absolute _crap_." He never looked up from his project, his fingers nimbly guiding the needle through the—she squinted—pastel blue… _thing_ he was making. He'd been working on that garment for hours now.

She giggled, her eyes twinkling with mirth at his discomfort. "Is it really that bad? I don't think I've ever heard you use the word _crap_ before."

He actually _stopped_ his sewing and glared at her. "I've never had to before _that American garbage_ came into my life."

It was absolutely _hilarious_, but she knew better than to push him _too_ far. Shouldn't he like Americans? They were his leading customer base! Bizarre and old-fashioned to a fault—she had seen him dance, and there was no way someone that could move _like that_ was anywhere _near_ as stuffy as he pretended to be—Tarrant Hightopp was the best choice anyone forced to settle for a flatmate could possibly have, regardless of his hypocrisy. She marked her page with a tea-stained, folded bill—which was late, damn it all—and padded on bare feet to the small docking station he had purchased for her birthday. _Un_birthday. Whatever he called it. Her forefinger pressed the Next button, hoping that would be the end of it and she could go back to reading on the couch.

A different song belched through the small, but capable speakers. His eyes, always that vivid green, seemed to darken somehow. "Don't you have anything… reasonable?"

Exasperated, she rolled her eyes. He _must_ be in one of his moods; usually, they were both so easily distracted—he, by his job and she, by her literature and fancies of travel—that neither ever really noticed what melody played in the backdrop. Her playlists were so eccentric, there was no telling what artist would follow the last… and _usually_, that was just fine. Alice had learned long ago, back in their shared dormitories—four long years ago abroad in a foreign land, in a chaotic University that held an atmosphere akin to _Hell_ were it not for her finding him—that when he was in the midst of a crisis, it always showed in his intolerance for her musical choices. Or _lack_ thereof, as he liked to say. Were it up to him, they would be listening to bloody _Beethoven_ all damned day.

He would not snap at her noisy and ragamuffin motley crew of friends—although he _did_ ask when their flat had suddenly sprouted a revolving door… to which she had thrown a cup of his favorite tea at him—and even if she pestered him till her face turned blue, he would not budge an inch on his disposition. But _heaven forbid_ she let her iPod choose its own voice. Hell and High Water was sworn above her head and, during one particularly _bad_ bout of depression, he flew into a fury so great, it had taken her almost an hour to calm him. "I'm sorry I don't have _Chopin_," she joked, shifting through song titles. He was so picky. "I just let Mally download whatever she wants… and then Thackery likes to throw a tantrum if I don't play _his_ song." More sorting. At this rate, she would have to make a new playlist and _condemn_ the Shuffle option to _burn_… but there were no songs that would spark his interest. "Wanna talk about it?" she offered, her voice softening a bit. Her eyes did not seek his and she made no move to pry further.

Tarrant would comply when he was ready.

A sigh escaped him. Alice glanced at him then, taking in the strain that tightened his mouth and dimmed his exuberant eyes. For all of his poise and controlled manner, he was pleasantly mad when alone in her company—a _trust_ barrier she had long since destroyed—and sometimes it was hard to remember—or forget, depending on his mood—that he was a _very_ successful fashion designer. A man in his prime with a promising future. Right now, his face seemed terribly aged; an old man with years and years of pain bottled up inside. "I won't bore you with it," he murmured, subdued. "It's not important."

She sighed as well, putting down her novel; she would have to find out if Princess Mirana ever _did_ find her White Knight-in-Shining-Armor later. By the looks of it, this would be a bad one. "I offered, didn't I?" and she climbed onto the edge of his workbench, slender enough to fold her legs before him.

He leaned back, staring at the adjacent wall. The one with her novelty Jolly Roger flag. "I…" he began, his fingers twitching nervously. Her brows furrowed. _'Odd. He's not usually so jittery.'_ What had him so on edge? Alice tried to read his mind, searching his face for anything that might give it away. Family problems? Sadly, most of them had succumbed to the black fabric of death, but the few that remained were awfully demanding of him. Maybe—and here, she had to gulp down an odd little lump in her throat—there was a _girl_?Once upon a time, she'd mistaken him for a homosexual… which would have been wonderful… but he had _not so kindly _corrected that assumption over a broken pot of tea and a _lot_ of apologizing on her part. Still, he had not sought female companionship of _that_ variety in all of the years she knew him. Maybe… maybe he had finally taken the plunge? Unfortunately, she missed it by a long shot. "I quit today."

Her blue-gray eyes bulged. She could feel it, but could not quell the shock. "You… you _what? Why?_"

He ran a hand over his face, his ashen pallor brightening ever so slightly. Was that relief? How could someone throw away their life's work—their _passion_—and be relieved? "One of the models threw a tiff today. Kept squawking about how the dress _did not show enough_." He looked at her then, indignation and confusion fighting a war on his handsome face. "Can you believe that? I thought women were very adamant about decency, respect and equality? What happened?"

She shrugged, a little amused that he thought she would be able to answer that question properly. Alice Kingsleigh was the _last_ female to ask such silly things to… unless it was rhetorical. She tried to answer anyway. "It's all about sex nowadays. The more you show, the more success you garner." She smiled. "A woman can make millions if she shows enough… and with _those_ standards, your line is more suited for Grannies Gone Wild." The corner of his mouth quirked upwards in the beginnings of a smile, and she was immensely glad for it. "Sorry, bad joke," she added. "But it's true; America's Hollywood has no room for _decency_, Tarrant, and they'll never appreciate your talent. What will you do now, though? I can't imagine Uncle Braedyn will be pleased."

At the mention of the gruff, unyielding relative Alice had had the… pleasure? No, _dis_pleasure of meeting—once, and that had been more than enough to have Tarrant apologizing to her for over a month—Tarrant's eyes darkened again. But only for a moment. The expression that overtook his features diminished the many years the stress had compiled upon him. Alice found herself anxious for reasons she did not entirely understand. "I… I think I have a pretty good idea," he mused, inspiration brightening him considerably. She had not seen him this way in a long, _long_ time. "I have more than enough put aside for a rainy day… and some more that I've invested. I… Alice," at this, he gasped in shock, an epiphany clouding his eyes. "Alice, I want to open a shop!" He jumped out of his chair, marching decisively towards his sketchbook with her trailing behind in astounded silence.

Once he'd found a pencil, he started to stencil lightly on the blank canvas, vague circles and squares, and distractedly plopped himself onto the couch she had vacated only a few moments prior. Alice perched herself onto the armrest by his side, leaning over his shoulder to watch. Minutes rolled by and the shape started making sense; he began clarifying the contours and shading in certain corners. The pencil made wide, loopy arcs until she could finally distinguish the brim of a hat amongst the many duplicating lines. A top hat? It was strange to watch him sketch for he never allowed her access to it, but she relished the opportunity. Her elbow shifted a little on the headrest of his seat and she glanced at his face, deep in concentration.

And then blushed, for she had not realized how incredibly _close_ they sat. How the scent of him—

'_Silly Alice,_' she admonished, quickly diverting her attention back to the page. A sash had been added, as well as a few pins. An overall _odd_ hat, but an impressive one nonetheless. She paused and tilted her face, letting her head rest in the palm of her hand. Once the butterflies had stopped their maddening dance in her belly, she realized his implication. "You want to open a _hat_ shop?"

His hand finally stopped moving, though his fingers kept flexing in excitement. "Yes. _Yes_, Alice, I believe I do."

So unreserved and giddy. One usually had to pile him with shots of tequila to get him to loosen up a little, and the _last_ time she had tricked him into a drinking competition, he had—oh! _Not_ a good time to think about that! She had barely escaped with her innocence intact. Not that _Alice_ had been the one to finally snap himself out of it, apologize _profusely_ for his horrible behavior, and then promptly pretend it had never happened the next morning… no, Alice had been the one to cry for the rest of the night from the blatant rejection, and realization that she would never be good enough. For _anyone_. And after a time, she was fine with forgetting that night entirely.

So caught up in old memories, she almost missed his next words. Her propensity to daydream was notorious. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"

He huffed, but it was in good nature. "I _said_ that _this _hat—" he turned up to face her, that new smile on his face… and stopped. Alice turned at the abrupt silence and found him staring intently at her face. Then specifically her eyes… then her nose… then her lips. And his attention stayed there. Her tongue flicked out self-consciously, her mouth suddenly dry. Tarrant cleared his throat—a little loudly—and continued. "This one is to be mine."

'_What?_' was her initial response, before she remembered that he was speaking of the sketch. The _hat_. For a moment in its briefest existence, she could have _sworn_ the possessiveness had been directed towards… but no, that was just silly. '_Silly, silly Alice._' The goosebumps that blazed across her arms were dying a slow and agonizing death. "But why hats?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. "Do you know _how_ to make hats?" Now that her curiosity had been piqued, the tightening in her chest had begun to unfurl. Alice sat up and away from him for _both_ of their sakes. "Did you taking a hatting class I don't know about?" she quipped, trying to alleviate the tension. "Because I've never met a fashion major with _that_ skill." Her smile fell a little flat. To her discomfort, Tarrant was still _staring_ at her. Studying her. She briefly wondered why, and tried to stifle the giggle that threatened to break through in lieu of her wild imagination; was he thinking of _hatting_ her? Oh, he would _murder_ her for being so positively mean if he knew.

"I've read a book or two on the subject," he finally answered, turning back to the picture in his hands. Relief refreshed her electrified nerves, but a part of her missed his eyes on her. She viciously beat that part with some old, moldy cheese—which reminded her, they had to get groceries soon!—and tried to focus on what Tarrant, the future hatter, was saying. "I consider myself a quick study." There was a smile in his voice. "Let someone else deal with the complications of clothing the overly glorified bodies of those starving, narcissistic women; I'll make sure they have a good-looking head on their shoulders."

In spite of the absurdity, she found herself laughing amicably, his excitement rubbing off on her. "It's going to be hard at first, you know," she could not help but warn. "But I'm sure you'll work it out." Alice placed an unsure hand on his shoulder, trying to convey her sincerity. "Once you set your heart on it, people will be _begging_ for a Hightopp hat!"

Silence. His eyes were impossibly round when they met hers again. "You… are a genius."

Her brows furrowed. "I am?"

Tarrant was positively _bursting_ with happiness, and he grabbed her. She giggled from the absurdity as, after he had pulled both her and himself from their sedentary positions, he twirled her about their living room in unabashed glee, her long hair billowing wildly about them. This was certainly a first. "_Hightopp Hats_, Alice!" he cried, his mouth inches from her ear. "Absolutely _brilliant_!"

She hugged him, both from fear that he would loosen his grip—though she trusted him to be careful with her—and from the pure exhilaration. How wonderful, this.

Alice felt she could fly.

He finally set her down after another moment of indulgence, their laughter slowly dying but their smiles still wide. The moment was beautiful and perfect, his joy genuine and a delight to behold. She found herself riveted, and when he did not look away, she could not help but devour his _everything_; if her eyes had teeth, his bones would have been picked clean. They stood still in this vain for a time, for in truth, she had no idea how long they held this pose. Her arms were still loosely draped over his shoulders and his hands had not yet fallen away from her torso—a fact she was all too aware of, as wildfire flared from his fingertips.

The mood shifted.

The smile on his face ironed out a bit at the edges. The innocent display took on a different light, and she could see the change register on his face… but he did not back away. A slight flush gave a rosy hue to his normally pale complexion, which could easily be contributed to the wild swinging of her body for the last few minutes. He was studying her again, that odd and thrilling search of her features. What was he looking for? Alice could not fathom it, for she discovered herself doing the same to him. Craning her neck a bit, she took in his took in his height. Took in the disheveled auburn curls, the large, green eyes that now shifted effervescently, the aristocrat's nose, the strong jaw and ever-changing line of his mouth. His strong shoulders and lean arms. She knew him to be a gentle—if somewhat morose—man, but there was a subtle strength to him. _Power_ that did not come from a life of privilege.

Never would he strike her, but neither would he hesitate to take up arms in protection. If she were his, would he protect her? Somehow, Alice _knew_ he would. If need be, he would die for her. _If_ she were his. Her imagination was running wild again, but she barreled on, no longer afraid in the face of this new reciprocation. He was already a provider, she knew, having adopted the role as financial backbone—the proverbial breadwinner—to his thinned and straining clan back in Scotland, but that was the least of her worries. His character was admirable, his patience to his craft infinite.

Would that reflect as a lover? Would he be as kind and considerate if they were to cross that boundary that—long ago, on a passionate night cut ruefully short due to his hesitance and inebriation—had bound them as nothing more than friend and flatmate for so many years? So many question suddenly flew to the forefront of her thoughts, not the least of them being her curious attention to such detail when she had easily brushed them aside as nonsensical fantasies so many times before. When his lips hovered a mere fraction of an inch before hers, she found that her eyes were closing of their own accord, her feet slowly lifting until only her toes touched the solid ground. '_Maybe I've been wrong all along,_' was the hazy notion that dreamily rolled around her mind like a listless cloud on a bright, sunny day. All of the other questions had faded. '_Maybe I'm not below his radar._' And when his breath—sweetened from the tea and scones they had shared at lunch—brushed gently across her cheeks, she was already far too gone to even think of a protest. Not that there were any to be had.

That _blasted_ song started up again, her music player having somehow found its way on a loop.

The shock of the American's voice froze every muscle in her body until she was sure she would break. Her eyes flew open to meet his own flustered gaze, a million emotions flickering over him. Alice could almost count them all. With this proximity, she saw flecks of gold in his eyes that she had never noticed before; a typhoon swirling from the pupil. Instead, she took note of how her breasts were crushed warmly against his chest, his arms having secured her there at some point between her doe-eyed observations of his person and the mindless need to _kiss_ him… for she was very well aware of what they had almost—_so close—_done. A wave of shock and awe flirted with her flesh.

As if burned, Tarrant hastily drew away from her, his cheeks burning. Rejection smacked her _hard_, the scabbed wound in her heart reopening tenfold. And all the while, that damned man whining through the speakers kept speaking of ice and cars and pimps without canes. She had never felt any particular way towards the artist, but she _detested_ that man now, and would do Tarrant the favor of deleting that moment-stealing cad from her iTunes library forever. Mally's favorites be damned.

"I-I… er, that is…" he was painfully nervous. "I'm thinking of words that begin with the letter 'M'." And embarrassed? She thought he might be, for even _he_ seemed horrified at the words that were flying out of his flailing mouth.

It stung. Horribly. Alice decided to be the mature one, this time. "That's what happens when we act like kids," she lectured playfully, though her heart was not in the ploy. "Get too excited, and everyone gets a little ahead of themselves." She eyed his fingers in a bitter sorrow, watching how they grabbed at the air in desperation. Clawing for air? Grasping for freedom? She looked away when all of the implications began to weigh down upon her.

"Indeed!" His voice was too high-pitched, his laugh too forced. This did not feel right _at all_. "The malicious meandering of a mournfully moronic and misguided mind can manifest meaning on a magnificent magnitude where there is none if one is not mindful." He gaped at her, as if to ask _what_ in the _world_ had just come out of his mouth—yet again. How many M's was that? She had lost count at the first two, and it surprised her. _Never_ had he demonstrated this kind of speech. He was _lisping_ a little bit, though not unattractively so. Yes, he had always maintained—another M! She would go dizzy before the day was through—his own level of individualism, but now it seemed she had a few more layers yet to expose. His cheeks were a resplendent crimson by now. In a panic, Tarrant changed the subject in a very obvious manner, all subtlety and tack forgotten. "I must ask that you _destroy_ that pathetic excuse for noise."

'_Already planning on it._' She sighed, a bit melancholy—_another _one! The song was not to blame for this mess. In all honesty, the beat was catchy in a heard-it-so-many-times kind of way that had morphed it into an acquired taste rather than a preferred one. "It's not that dreadful, once you get used to it." Alice moved into the seat he had placed the sketchbook and moved it aside so that she may collect her thoughts instead. Her own book lay forgotten on the tabletop somewhere far, far away.

"I'm afraid I have to disagree," he muttered, blindly heading for his workbench. He nearly stumbled over a chair on his way, his natural grace faltering in the face of… what? Alice could not decipher him, and she was usually the best at it.

When he picked up the needle and resumed his stitching, her lost courage came back just a tiny bit. "What _are_ you making? I thought you said you quit?"

Tarrant looked up at her, already shrinking into himself. "Er… I did. I'm sure I told you that already."

At least the alliteration was gone. It did not alarm her, so much as the depths of his anxiety were of such a level that he had forgotten himself. _That_ made Alice a little upset. "That doesn't look like a hat," she tested, eyeing the blue thing he worked diligently on. It was a lovely silk with an opaque, iridescent layer of fabric covering the sweet blue. It shimmered and glistened beautifully in a thousand different shades as he turned and manipulated the—it almost looked like—dress. Truly a breathtaking piece, but why put so much time into something he had so clearly forsaken? The midnight blue of the thread wove an intricate design on what appeared to be the hem of a skirt, wonderful ellipses and spiraling loops dancing upon the fringes.

"That would be correct," he agreed, his eyes lingering on the fabric as his fingers made another elaborate loop with the needle, carefully guiding the thread through. Why would he be so defensive over such a thing? Many times before, after she poked and prodded him with an endless array of inquiries, he would ask if she would be willing to model some of his finished work—all of them stunning masterpieces that, had they been born in a different era, would have taken the world by storm. The elegance of each dress and suit would have stunned the masses in another time; such a shame that their society would never appreciate the perfection of his craft. She had been completely blown away by the sheer beauty of the first ensemble he had asked her to wear for him, every molecule in her cerebrum absolutely loving the feel of silk and lace against her skin. Distantly, she remembered twirling and giggling with some unknown shyness, bashful that such an old-fashioned design would make her feel so complete. Like a child playing dress-up and wishing that it were not just a game of pretend.

After a time, he no longer had to ask and she no longer had to drop little hints; every time he finished another, she would dutifully undress and try it on, always giddy and always marveling at the perfect fit. Alice did not have a runway model's build—height, frame, bust… _none_ of it—but every single one of Tarrant's hand-crafted fantasies hugged and emphasized her every curve with an ethereal accuracy, as if they were all _made_ for her… which was silly. He made these things for photo shoots and snooty women that pivoted and posed dramatically before a crowd of bedazzled onlookers, not for his daydreaming flatmate in their home on Notting Hill.

But here, he seemed most unwilling to explain _this_ design to her. They had not been this distant since their first encounter oh-so-long ago.

That dull ache returned.

Alice left him to his devices; if he chose not to tell her, then he simply _would not_. She grudgingly sat back in her seat, trying not to let her disappointment become an angry, tangible thing. In lieu of a distraction, she played with the edge of his sketchbook, idly flipping to a random page somewhere near the center.

And froze.

After a moment, Alice brought the pad onto her lap, slouching over the very distinctive image of herself in Tarrant's unwavering penmanship. Her eyes, the lines of her mouth, the slope of her nose… her curls were defined in spectacular detail. A black-and-white reflection. Here, she wore a very Victorian gown with small, puffy sleeves and a cascade of skirts that continuously folded over in layers and layers of the intricate design. There was lace around the hem, some simple embroidery—along with a few jagged scribbles she could barely decode—along some of the more voluminous puffs in the skirt. A list had been written by the picture, most of the contents crossed out, but many, _many_ of them pertained to some variation of blue, or accents that would highlight the color she was so fond of. The beauty of what he envisioned her wearing made her current attire—a mere oversized gray shirt and matching shorts—feel incredibly drab.

She wanted to trace the lines to prove to herself that this was _real_, but did not want to smear the pretty little picture. Numbly, she flipped to the page after and found _another_ portrait of herself, this time in a more elaborate dress with a dozen more specifications than the last. She kept turning the sketches over, each little canvas bringing another flutter to her palpitating heartbeat. Alice realized that more than _half_ of the sketchbook detailed her in various poses, all in some wonderful creation his brilliant mind had conjured… _just for her_.

It began making sense. _All_ of it made sense.

She turned to the last page before the illustration of his future top hat and her eyes widened just a fraction. Quickly, she glanced to the design he had almost completed—the stitching, anyway—and then dropped her gaze back to the book. A beat passed, then another, until she dared to ask, "Tarrant… is that dress…" She faltered, but swallowed back the fear. "Is that for _me_?"

Alice summoned her courage and _looked_ at him—_really_ looked at him. She may have had her head in the clouds most of the time, but they had both attended the same University in his homeland, and she considered him one of the most talented and intelligent men she had ever had the pleasure of encountering—with the exception of her late father, but that was neither here nor there. Silly she could be, painfully oblivious was her creed, but she was not _stupid_. And it seemed that thought had flirted with him as well, for when his startled eyes met hers, he blanched and immediately glared at the book in her hands. His little book of secrets that she wished she had pandered through a _very_ long time ago.

He did not answer, but he did not return to the garment—_her _garment. He did not dive across the room to hide what she had already seen and he did not look away. He did not _move_.

Electricity cackled through her veins again, this time stronger by way of the foundation he had—finally!—unknowingly given her. He nodded, the slightest of tilts, and she let out a breath she was not aware of holding. They were achingly silent, the song he hated so much starting another cycle of its abysmal loop due its evil Repeat One option. The song… "Tarrant?"

Defensive again. That lisp was back. "Yes?"

Waiting for the cue, she rose slowly from her prone position, smiling just a little. She wanted to scream and cry and spin around the room like an imbecile, and perhaps her jolly disposition lent strength to her very _silly_ idea. Alice, having never, _ever_ once visited a ghetto nor exposed to the life of a hoodlum, threw up a random gang symbol with her fingers—there was probably no such thing, but he would not know that either—and started to saunter like one. This would _certainly_ grab his attention and hold it. "_I thought I told ya… I'mma star,_" she mimicked, bouncing a little. Her accent could not match the American's, but she tried.

The tension was broken and he smiled that wonderful _wonderful_ smile of his. "Please, not you too."

"_See that ice? See the cars,_" she continued, waving her hands emphatically through the air.

"Alice," he warned, but ruined it with a laugh.

She knew how ridiculous she looked. She just didn't _care_. "_Flashy lights, everywhere we are._" Her hips did an odd little hobble and she took a few dramatic and elaborate steps toward his bench, where the color had begun rising in his cheeks. The laughter was fading and in her approach, fled altogether. "_Live the night like there's no tomorrow._" The rest of the words were lost on her as the chorus was the only distinctive part, but it did not matter; the vocals faded around them, the nonsensical rhymes and boasts completely irrelevant. Alice hovered over him, for once the taller of the two.

And though she initiated the contact, it was _Tarrant_ who pushed himself from his seat and grasped her face in his hands. It was _he_ who—_finallyfinallyfinallyfinally_—caught her lips with his own and _pressed_ ardently against her very willing and very inviting mouth. She had kissed a boy or two before, but this was an entirely different experience; hands kept plundering through her tangled mass of hair, roaming through the slender plains of her back. Her arms wove around his neck and tried to squeeze as close as possible, trying to delve into his body. She moaned when his tongue found hers and massaged and played and—! He picked her up and all thought flew out of the proverbial window, her backside now resting atop the bench he so obsessively organized and maintained every hour of every day. Her knees spread and he stood between them, his pelvis impossibly warm against hers.

This was better than any daydream. Better than any paperback novel she had ever—_would_ ever—read. He was positively burning against her and she feared they would burst into flame. It would be such a _delicious_ fire, full of rainbows and sparks and wonderful, _wonderful_ lips that had moved to her jawline. His fingers pranced along the small of her back, not daring to go any further. His teeth nipped and nibbled on her earlobe before teasing the sensitive flesh of her neck. Her breath was labored, the blood roaring in her ears—she wanted to squirm, but settled for spearing her fingers through his soft, springy mane in delight.

"I'm going back to Scotland," he rumbled against her throat, tickling her. Before the words could register, he pushed her onto her back, climbing above her and radiating primal masculinity. Her body sang in response. "And I want you to come with me."

His eyes were shining brighter than ever, arousal clear in the uneven rise and fall of his chest. His lips stayed a mere inch away—to let her foggy daze clear and _think_—but it was enough for his statement to finally break though the happy clouds that polluted her thoughts with the honey-sweet images of him and her moving together in a tango as old as time. He would hold and caress and—no, he had said something. Alice tried to concentrate, heady with the bittersweet rush of anticipation. It did not help that the velvet timbre of his voice spread chills down her spine in a very delightful way. "Uh…" Okay, now was the time for _coherency_. "Er… yes?" What was she agreeing to? Did she really care? Sadly, no, as all she wanted was for this annoyingly _patient_ man to just _ravage_ her already and—

"_Alice,_" he tried again, clearing his throat. Perhaps he was not as unaffected as he was trying to be. "Alice, I need you to focus."

She giggled. "What?"

He rolled his eyes and she was mesmerized—not for the first time—by their beauty. "Will you come with me? To Scotland?"

What an odd thing to ask. His arms were braced on either side of her head, not allowing himself to squash her tiny frame beneath his. She noticed his quivering elbows, and realized that was all he wanted to do. "Why?" was all Alice could ask, blinking to clear the clouds. It was very sudden, after all.

"I…" and here, he sat next to her, his hands hanging uselessly between his knees. Never had she seen those appendages so still, but _never_ had she been so… so _frustrated_. Alice tried to calm herself, sitting up along with him. A part of her knew she had to hear this, regardless of how her body demanded she rip off his shirt and push them both onto the floor. The table. The couch—_anywhere!_ "I have been debating the subject for a while," he began, hesitant. Tarrant's smile was small and shy; it warmed her down to her toes. "I… this resignation was a long time coming. Ever since that vile woman recommended me to that cosplay agency." She frowned when he winced, and she tried to remember it—a cosplay? They had agencies for those lines of clothing? The idea seemed foreign to her, but she would not pester him with questions _now_. Not when she was so close to finding out the truth. "The indignation… but I digress."

One of his hands reached for hers, and she eagerly accepted it, memorizing every scar and tendon. "My cousin Merrill is getting married in a month, so I was obliged to return regardless… but then, I thought of you." The blush had returned. "All alone in this flat… too distracted to remember the bills, or to turn the lights off before you leave, or lock the doors behind you."

Alice scrunched her nose at him and he smiled. Must he really recount _all_ of her flaws? "E'en if ye dinnae take a loikin' tae th' place—an' Oi knae me fam'ly willnae help—" Tarrant stopped and cleared his throat, his emotions getting the better of him. His crisp, clear and hard-learned speech was back to normal when he spoke next. "We can start a new life there. You would adore the countryside. We can open the shop, live in a quiet town, buy _millions_ of those books you like so much…" The hope there was tangible, and it was plain to see that he had been thinking of this on more than one occasion. He laughed suddenly, scratching the back of his neck. "This is so _dreadfully_ silly. I never thought I would ever say this to you." A pause, still shaking with nerves. Alice grasped his shivering hands and tried to keep them still. "I…" Another pause. "It must have been the song—it drove me insane!"

Softly, she nudged him back to his original train of thought. "Tarrant."

"I have… been… _infatuated_ with you… for…" He seemed pained, as if this confession were being torn from him. "A… long time. The gown… was to be your present, if you decided to accompany me… or a parting gift, if you decided to stay. Either way, it is yours to do with as you wish—scrap it for parts or sell it… though… I think you would be a vision if you wore it." Tarrant had stopped looking at her somewhere along the line, for if he had continued, he would have noticed the suspicious shine—tears?—in her eyes as soon as it appeared. As it were, he did not and plowed through the rest of what must have been rehearsed, even just a little. "I know you constantly dream of traveling. I promise I will not chain you. If you come with me, you are free to leave whenever you please—I will pay your way back, if that is the case—but I ask that you give it… _us_, if you will have me… a chance. The world will be our playground and, if you tire of me, I only hope that we can remain as close as we have always been."

Her arms were around him again and she was crying—softly, at first, but then the joy was too great and her tears turned to sobs—against his chest, infinitely mortified at her reaction, but infinitely pleased. He thought she would say no? He could not possibly be so dim. "Of course!" she squealed, but it came out muffled and he pulled her back just a bit.

Gently, he wiped the tears with his fingers, his eyes wondering at the sight of them. "Why are you crying?"

She sniffled, her grin splitting her face in two. "_Because_ _I'm so happy_, you idiot!" And she was hugging him again.

They shared another kiss, soft and sweet, before the flurry of events caught up to them and sent them through a whirlwind of emotions. His hands were _everywhere_ again and she was clutching at him in her attempt to squeeze into him once more. The dress lay forgotten; as did his sketchpad and that _horrible_ song that she never _did_ change… or take off of Repeat, for that matter. His rough and calloused touch on her naked flesh was worth the garbling in the background and when he pulled off her shirt, she found she could not hear anything but their heartbeats, fluttering as fast as a hummingbird's wing. Tarrant ever-so-gently cupped one of her breasts and she moaned, arching into him. Alice claimed his mouth again, clumsy with desire—

"Guess who went shoppin' in tha' _posh _li'l' store down the street!" In burst her—now mutual—best friend, blindly throwing down bags and boxes of who-knew-what. The two would-be lovers did not have a second to move as she easily strode over to the couch, the door having been left unlocked…

Typical Alice. The _one_ time she should have locked that blasted deadbolt was the _one_—okay, _more_ than one (thousand?)—time she did not.

"And I got you two gifts! 'Ow much do you love—" Finally, _finally_ Mally tossed her platinum hair over her shoulder and turned her wide moss-green eyes on the scene she had so mindlessly interrupted. Time froze in that instant, and an odd, shivering shape behind the woman sucked in a gasp of alarm. Mally gawked and dropped everything she held, her jaw dropping along with her purchases the instant she realized. Behind her, frozen with shock, her brother Thackery tugged minutely on the sleeve of his sister's coat, his eyes even wider than Mally's; at fourteen, he had only seen such implications in the magazines.

Never removing his hand—though he curled an arm protectively around her back—from its perch on her chest, Tarrant—wonderfully breathless—growled, "_Impeccably bad timing,_ Mallymkun."

The siblings flew from the room, and Alice could have _sworn_ she heard, "_About bloody time!_" echoing down the corridor.

_Now they got that spotlight on me—_

_Why they put that on me?  
Now I'm never lonely  
'Cause everywhere I go, it's…_

_Flashy lights_

_Everywhere we are._

**END**

**AFTERWORD: **_This_ is why people tell you to _always get a good night's sleep_. I haven't slept more than ten hours in three weeks. What have I done to your beautiful creations, Almighty Tim Burton? I dare not speak to the Maker Lewis Carroll, for he would _smite_ my unworthy ass. _What the hell have I done?_ This is putrid, garbage-infested Gilgamesh snot. If shitfudge were a flavor, _this_ would be it. I can't believe _I_ came up with this… silliness. I don't even _like_ this song.

…Yet, oddly, I kind of want to explore this plot. Please, do not flame me: I'm already burning _myself_.


End file.
